After all these years, still trying to get a clue...
Twins.
And both look good. Both measuring where they should be at 6w6d, and both heartbeats look good.
I can go off the progesterone suppositories and lower my Prednisone dose.
And by the way, did I happen to mention THERE ARE TWO IN THERE?!?!?
Two sacs. Two fetal poles. AND TWO HEARTBEATS!!!
Holy Hannah. I’m pregnant. With twins.
My third beta came back at 57,—-.
After I heard the nurse say, "Fifty-seven-thousand…" I kind of tuned out and didn’t hear the rest of what she was saying.
I’m assuming at most there are only two in there, right? Since we only put back two embryos, that would make sense, right??
RIGHT?! She shrieks maniacally at the computer screen.
BeBop and I go in Saturday for our first ultrasound, so I guess I’ll get a better idea of what’s going on In There then.
BeBop asked me this morning how I’m feeling.
"Uh, fine, I guess. Just super, super tired."
"Well, you’d know, instinctively, if things weren’t going well, right?" he asked.
To say I became unhinged is somewhat of an understatement.
"HOW THE FRICK WOULD I KNOW?" I yelled. "I’ve never been pregnant before, how the hell would I know what’s going on?? I’ve never carried a living creature around inside me before, I have no idea what feels like what," I continued, making less and less sense as I carried on.
I think the stress of our upcoming scan is starting to get to me. I’m cracking under the pressure.
**** **** ****
In other news, my poor sister is still sick and my Mom is still shirking her motherly duties.
The day I heard my sister was put on bed rest, I scrambled onto Babies R Us and Target and bought tons of stuff from her registry. Tons of stuff I had no idea existed and that I would have no clue what to do with. Like milk storage bags (although their title is fairly self-explanatory, I guess…), a microwave steam sterilizer, a Supreme Snuggle Nest with Incline (HEY! Can I get one of those, whatever it is?) and some other crap.
Did the prospect of maybe needing to know what all this stuff is make me all nervous and twitchy? Why, yes. Did the idea of one day possibly even needing to own all of this stuff, AND USE IT, send me into somewhat of a panic? Yep. And did that send me scurrying to the kitchen for a stale Mrs. Field’s cookie that we got from placing an order with Office Depot sometime last quarter? How did you know?
I also ordered my sister a special relaxation CD made especially for women on bed rest. I was on the phone with her when it arrived, and can only imagine the smirk on my (very conservative) brother-in-law’s face when he saw the package from Earth Mama Angel Baby. "It must be from your sister," I heard him say as soon as he saw the return address.
She had to start taking blood pressure medication and had a terrible reaction to it at first. I’m planning to go down there in mid-May, and I won’t be surprised if her baby makes an early appearance, so we’ll see what happens.
**** **** ****
Anyhoopers, my Mom regaled me with tales of the Sedona Life Vessel. "It’s not a pod!" she kept correcting me. (And the official story is that no Peyote was involved, but I’m dubious.)
"But you sit in a machine that’s like a tanning booth, right?" I asked. "But you’re all enclosed or ensconced or whatever? Sounds like a pod to me…"
Apparently she sat in this vessel for an hour the first day, two hours the second and yep! you guessed it, THREE hours the third day. While in this pod (excuse me, VESSEL), flashing lights beamed down on her and it had a slight vibration. There may have also been noise or music involved but I was having a hard time paying attention after a few minutes of her story.
I still can’t quite grasp the overall impact of the life vessel, but it’s supposed to cure anything that ails you.
"Oh! Well then your sinuses must be much better," I helpfully suggested.
"You know what? You’re right! I hadn’t thought much about it," she said.
Hmmmm….doesn’t sound like a ringing endorsement if you ask me. If you were cured of everything that ails you, wouldn’t you want to at least feel healthier?
**** **** ****
And? She’s totally torturing my sister about her choice of non-organic, non-hemp made materials for the baby’s room. My sister is more into the high-end, designer baby decorations. My Mom, on the other hand, prefers an all-natural approach, as you might remember from The Infamous Baby File.
My Mom’s been calling her twelve times a day, warning her about the imminent danger from ‘out-gassing’ from the mattresses my sister has for the crib. Not to mention how her choice of non-organic sheets and bumpers and GASP! some polyester, fleece-like blankets will mean certain and immediate death for the poor little tyke.
My Mom kept telling my sister how she went to Babes R Us and even though my sister corrected her forty-thousand times, she kept insisting she was horrified by all the polyester clothing at Babes R Us. Which sounds much more like a strip club than a baby store, so at least my sister and I got a good laugh out of that one.
And for some reason, my Mom was also against the idea of a glider rocking chair thing for nursing.
"But you have Papa’s rocking chair," she told my sister. "Why don’t you just use that?"
Ummmm…probably because it’s from our family’s 1800s farmhouse in the Northeast, designed for a 5’3", 140-pound man to sit in while smoking his pipe and contemplating the impending secession of Southern states and wondering if that could lead to an actual Civil War and is conceivably the most uncomfortable piece of furniture ever fashioned from a piece of wood.
Maybe that’s why.
Oy. It’s never a dull moment around here.
Annnnnnnddddd…..SCENE.
The fourth, and for everyone’s sake I hope final, installment of the Shot-Tastic video series is up on YouTube.
P.S. I think I actually washed my hair that day!!
P.P.S. And YES, the damn camera does add ten pounds. At least. Thank you for asking.
So first things first, my third Beta came back at 7589 (and my progesterone is still up at 418) so that was a relief, to put it mildly! I know we still have a looooooong way to go, but it’s certainly nice to get some reassuring news every once in a while.
My first ultrasound is next weekend and then I have my Killer Cells re-tested in another three weeks, and hopefully all goes well on those fronts.
In the meantime, I’m cramming the Metformin, thyroid (which I need to increase) and Prednisone down my gullet like they’re Skittles.
In terms of Symptom Watch 2007 [duhn duhn duhn…] there is nothing new to report. I’m still suffering an acute case of Bologna Boobs Syndrome. I apologize to everyone who either didn’t know what bologna was, and thus had NO freaking clue what the hell I was talking about; to those who were eating lunch at the time they were reading that post (and possibly threw up a little in their mouths); and, finally, to those of you who actually like bologna and now can no longer eat it, haunted by images of my enlarged aerolas as you try to chomp on a bologna-and-mayo-on-white bread sammy.
But you know what? Bologna and mayo on white bread aren’t all that healthy anyway, so perhaps I did you a favor. Ever think of it that way??
Moving on…
So news in the Watson household yesterday is that I think the ultra-fabulous Oneliner was correct when she guessed my Mother was not, in fact, undergoing some miracle treatment in the Life Pod but rather was smoking Peyote on her trip to Sedona. I think she’s in some sweat lodge, smoking Peyote, going on a mental walk-a-bout vision quest thing and I can tell you one thing for sure: it’s doing NOTHING to increase her nurturing capabilities.
My younger sister is 31 weeks pregnant, and just found out yesterday that she has to be on modified bed rest because her blood pressure is way up. Thankfully, the baby is fine. But she needs to go in twice a week for stress tests to monitor him, and in the meantime, stay at home in bed or on the couch. She can still work on her laptop, which is good because she owns her own business and not working at all would really cause her stress.
My poor sister called me hysterical yesterday, sobbing into the phone, worried about the baby and possibly having to deliver early. Also, she has nothing – nothing – ready for him. She was supposed to fly up here this weekend for two baby showers, and was hoping she’d get stuff from her registry. Because she was waiting for the parties, besides ordering the furniture which hasn’t arrived yet, she hasn’t bought a thing. So needless to say, she was completely freaked out about having the baby early and not being ready at all.
Because my Mother is in Arizona and scheduled to fly back today, and because last time I checked Arizona was perilously close to Southern California where my sister lives, I made the suggestion that perhaps my Mom fly there instead of coming home and help my sister out for a few days.
"ARE YOU CRACKED?" was my Mother’s response.
Honestly, she acted as if I asked her to lay a golden egg out of her own asshole, hatch it into a goose and FLY it to Orange County. She responded as if my idea was seriously the most outlandish suggestion EVER uttered from one human being to another since the Dawn of Time.
The Life Pod Peyote Sweat Lodge of Sedona is doing nothing to improve her maternal instincts.
A few years ago, she would laugh and say, "Since going through menopause, I’ve decided to give up the nurturing, mothering parts. You brats are on your own."
Of course, being the bitchy little snot understanding daughter that I am, I would roll my eyes dramatically and respond, "Errrrrr…WHEN exactly was your nurturing period? I think I must have been on vacation. I missed that era."
And that would devolve into her You Ungrateful Brats Speech #375A.
But I digress. The bottom line is that my Mom is beyond frustrating and my sister is on bed rest. And although I really didn’t want to fly during the first trimester (just one of My Things, you know?) I will be making a trip to LA in the next couple of weeks to help her get settled and ready for the baby.
Good grief! With genes like this I’m getting nervous, people.
Let’s hope the Un-Mothering Gene isn’t passed down from one generation to the next.
You know those formerly-infertile women who go through IVF, get pregnant immediately and just sail through nine blissful months of happiness and good health? The women who never have any other issues, because Lord knows they paid their dues with ART and now they’re gliding through pregnancy with ease and little baby angels singing in the background and sweet-smelling potpourri coming out of their ass?
You know the ones I’m talking about??
Yeah. Me neither.
I’m fine, everything is fine. So far, so good.
But remember when I talked about the chances of my Natural Killer Cells staging a rebellion, or perhaps even a coup? Well, that is in fact happening. My numbers were elevated last week, so I have to go in for another IVIG/infusion which as you all know, is just my favorite thing in the world. (Mmmmmm….yummy! More of some stranger’s blood by-products coursing through my veins.)
Plus, I have to start taking Prednisone. And continue taking the Metformin until at least 12 weeks.
And my thyroid is up, so I’ll need to increase the dose of my thyroid medication too.
(And just when I was about to place my order for The Organic Pregnancy book on Amazon! DAMN YOU to hell killer cells and retarded thyroid.)
Other than extreme bouts of whining about having to cram all those meds down my gullet, I don’t have too many symptoms so far. I really don’t know what’s going on IN THERE. I assume I’m still pregnant, my next Beta isn’t until this Wednesday. And my first scan is the 21st, so I guess it’s all one big crap shoot until then.
Symptom Watch 2007: (When you read this, you have to imagine those overly-dramatic Storm Watch segments that the news stations do. With the scary DUHN DUHN DUHN music and the flashy headlines they use to scare you into watching. Around here they’ll say: STORM WATCH 2007! Gale-force winds! Winds up to 20 miles per hour. They might even blow your hair back! And it will be freezing cold. Possibly below 65 degrees!! And torrential rainstorms in the forecast! YOU MIGHT GET WET. Stay tuned!!)
So that’s what I’m going to do: SYMPTOM WATCH 2007!! [Insert dramatic music here…] I haven’t had any nausea, and my boobs are just starting to get sore. It’s weird that they weren’t more tender while I was on the PIO shots, because the all-natural form of progesterone I used to take would cause me such utter agony in the chestal region I could barely walk up and down my stairs without an industrial strength brassiere on. So I consider myself lucky on this one. Although, speaking of my boobs, my areolas are freaking huge. It looks like I have two slices of bologna attached to the front of my chest.
(I’m not quite sure why I chose to draw such a specific picture for you. Forgive me.)
Moving on.
I should have a good story later this week, because my Mom leaves tomorrow for Sedona where she’s spending several hours a day in something called a Life Pod or Vessel or something like that. I guess it uses sound, light, energy and something else (she’s notoriously scant on details!) to heal you of, according to my Mother, everything.
She said yesterday, "Once you and your sister are done having babies, I’m sending you both to the Life Pod to cleanse your systems."
Done having babies?
Man, that seems like a long way away from where I stand now…
DAMN, I’m happy I can stop those shots.
Although to be fair, I didn’t really have a lot of boob soreness from the PIO. (I actually felt a lot worse when I was taking the all-natural form my acupuncturist was giving me before the cycle. That turned me into a raving, boob-swelling maniac.) So my bad, PIO, you gave me ass-welts that still hurt, but I probably shouldn’t blame you for any breast-related issues.
My progesterone was 500-something, so they said while I should continue with the ever-delightful (and not messy AT ALL) suppositories, I could stop the injections as of Monday night.
I was in such a fog when the nurse called me Monday with the Beta results, I actually had to call back and verify that she told me to stop the shots. "Are you SURE?" I must have asked fourteen frillion times.
BeBop called me earlier that morning to inform me his cell phone battery was dead.
"Are you freaking KIDDING ME?" I yelled at the top of my lungs. "This will be the SINGLE MOST IMPORTANT PHONE CALL of your whole, entire goddamn life, and you can’t manage to have your cell charged?" I shrieked into the phone.
"I know," he said, "it’s crazy." Which is what he always says when I complain what a doofus he is.
After my blood test I went shopping to distract myself, but ended up getting home around noon, knowing they wouldn’t call until after 2:00. Each time the phone rang I literally flew off my chair about three feet in the air.
2:15: BeBop calls. "Have you heard anything?" he asked, inexplicably. Being the nice, understanding and sweet insane and highly irritable wife I am, I yelled into the phone, "YEAH. I heard the Beta results and I’m just sitting here picking my fucking nose. Don’t you think I’ll call you right away??" [SLAM.]
2:25 My sister calls. "Have you heard anything?" she asked. "No, but I am literally about to have a freaking heart attack." [SLAM.]
Finally, at about 3:30, the nurse called with the good news, and she put me out of my misery fairly quickly. "I have good news," she said almost immediately. "Your Beta is 157…" and then everything went numb. I started to cry, but was trying to listen to her and take notes because I knew I wouldn’t remember the exact numbers.
Of course I called BeBop right away, and thankfully he was at his desk so I wouldn’t have to start divorce proceedings over the fact that he couldn’t manage to have his cell phone charged, on THIS, of all days. I think he started crying too.
Then my sister, and my Mom, who immediately thanked her Indian guru.
At this point, I’ll thank him and anyone else out there who can help make all of this happen.
Tomorrow is Beta #2 and another Natural Killer Cell test to make sure the little buggers aren’t all, oh no she diin’t.
Thank you all for your sweet comments. A million, gajillion thank yous to everyone who commented. I heart you thiiiiiiiiiiiis much.
***
I just heard this very second:
Second Beta came back at 385.
I can finally breathe now, right? At least a little bit…
Lordy.
How many other bloggers have already used that title?
(Well, no one ever said I was original. Weird, inappropriate, offensive and ‘just off,’ but not necessarily original.)
I think all of your well-wishes are working. Those of you who went to the pink cotton candy baby dusty dark side, and those who just couldn’t but sent good thoughts anyway: thank you.
Your sticky vibes, your Kokopellis, your Candy Man songs, the baby-dust candyfloss (which? Don’t know what it is BUT I LIKE IT), the eensy-weensy fertility fairie making a soft landing in the center of my baby cave, and let’s not forget Statia’s threat (or is it a promise?) to "shove a care bear riding a unicorn up [my] asshole…"
I think it’s all helping.
Today is 9DP5DT and I saw a faint second line.
So did BeBop. After his initial, "IS THAT YOUR PEE?!? Ewwwwww…." comment, he saw it too. So did Bosco.
Beta tomorrow morning, results tomorrow afternoon.
Ho.Ly. CRAP.
Okay, first things first.
Because I love the wonderful Bea over at Infertile Fantasies, and because she asked so nicely, I have included my SHOT-TASTIC video diaries ("An Idiot’s Guide to Injectibles") in her International Infertility Film Festival.
It’s on March 31st, so go on over and take a looksy. I can assure you far more talented film makers (and I use that term loosely when applied to myself!) than I will be submitting their works of art, so enjoy!
http://infertilityfilmfestival.blogspot.com/
And secondly, on a totally different rant:
I might have spoken too soon. It pains me to admit that, but it might be true.
Many of you know of my deep and abiding hatred of those cutesy, message-boardy ways of describing our TTC journeys. I think Sarah over at For The Flavor shares this feeling. (Although she’s probably not half as bitchy as I am about it.) And no offense to anyone who finds comfort or support in those things, but to say they’re not my cup of tea is an understatement.
("TTC" — See! I just did it myself. It’s insidious! It just gets inside your cerebral cortex and you can’t help yourself. It’s like the plague.)
I cannot express my irritation, back in the bad old days before I found blogging, at the saccharin, infantile ways of describing things: The BD’ing with your DH. Baby-dancing?! BLECH. Are we in the third grade for crissakes? And ‘dear husband’? I call BeBop lots of things but dear husband is rarely one of them. (It might stand for Dick Head but that’s an entirely different post.)
And I’ve mentioned in an earlier post how instead of calling it BD’ing, in our house it was more likely to be shortened to: AYFKMIJAAHB.
(Are You Freaking Kidding Me I Just Ate A Huge Burrito. Which BeBop would mutter with dismay when I announced that according to TCYF, my BBT was about to rise and I was close to O’ing so we simply must make the sexy time and NOW.)
(See! I sometimes can’t help myself. GAWD. Kill me now.)
And don’t even get me started on that damn baby dust or those frackin’ sticky vibes. Usually, I feel compelled to take that baby dust, attach it to a 2′ x 4′ with sticky vibes and then shove the entire thing up your A-ESS-ESS.
LOL 🙂
[Insert sarcasm here]
The little smiley-face emoticons that people use throughout their posts make me want vomit. And the animated boxes at the bottom, with messages like "think positive" with Eeyore blinking at me with purple eyes, or the cartoon with Belle reminding me that "A dream is a wish my heart makes…"
THANKS. Thanks for reminding me, Belle, that a dream is a wish my heart makes. I must have fucking-a forgotten THAT little gem, what with all the TTC’ing and the BBT’ing and the BD’ing.
And excuse me while I throw up a little in my mouth.
But!
I may have made a grave error, and now I need your help. With my Beta mere days away, I am now thinking that I need all the help I can get. So I am willing to go to the dark side (or the frilly pink side with some extra lace on it for good measure) if it will help me get some good news.
I have turned over a new, clover-shaped leaf. I am willing to ask for baby dust with a side of sticky vibes. I would spice up this entry with a jumping, arm-waving smiley-face if I knew how to do it.
And I need your help. (Because ruhhly, what’s a post from Watson without me asking for something??)
In the comments section, please send me the most outrageous, sickeningly sweet TTC help you can think of.
I’m looking for baby dust to come out of my cornhole, people.
I’m going for rainbow-colored unicorns dancing on clouds of marshmallows. I’m going for teddy bears sitting next to a chocolate lake with cookies for rafts. And puff pastry shells covered in sticky vibes and raspberry sauce.
Get the picture? Can you help me out?? Purty please with cinnamon sugar and gummy bears on top?
So, the transfer…what a CRAZY experience.
Soon after we arrived in Dr. Z’s office, I came back to the waiting room after using the restroom. I sat down next to BeBop and he practically shouted in my ear: "DO YOU KNOW THIS ONLY HAS A 20% CHANCE OF WORKING?" he shrieked, "DID YOU KNOW THIS??"
I swear it was almost an episode out of Homicide: Life in the Fertility Doctor’s Office.
"Why would you say that to me?" I shouted, but in a whisper, as only us girls can do. "Why would you SAY THAT to me NOW??" I demanded. BeBop had just read part of an article about Dr. Z posted on the wall, and apparently it freaked him out and turned him into The World’s Worst Husband.
"I SWEARTOFRICKINGGOD," I whisper/shouted through clenched teeth, "I will find something sharp and stab you to death if you continue with this." Moments later he apologized, claiming he had only read part of the article and how those stats did not pertain to me. Quick thinking on his part.
(Although I would have waited to kill him until after he’d given his sample. I’m not a total idiot.)
*** *** *** ***
[Note: If for any reason you prefer not to read about the genetic testing and the results, please just skip this part. I talk about how many of the embryos were not viable and why, and I don’t want to upset anyone who’s suffered a loss and might not care to read about this stuff.]
After a long wait we were ushered in to Dr. Z’s office where we heard the results of our pre-implantation genetic testing, or PGD. To be perfectly honest, I was not a fan of the PGD to begin with. No moral or ethical issues, I just thought this whole IVF process is already so scientific, so medical. For me, there wasn’t much room left for fate, or faith, or whatever you want to call it. It seemed so science fiction-y to genetically test the embryos before transferring them. But once the doctor recommended that we do it, mostly because of my age (39), BeBop and I decided we had come this far, we might as well go all the way.
So, just to review: we had a total of 27 eggs retrieved. 22 matured and 19 fertilized. So we had 19 embryos that were tested using the PGD. Normally he would expect about 35% (or 6) of these to be ‘normal.’ Of the 19 that were tested, we had 9 that were normal, which Dr. Z said was great. Even better, 14 were Grade 1 and 5 were a Grade 2. On Day 5 (transfer day) we one 8-cell, 1 morula, 2 EBs, 3 blasts and 1 X-blast.
Here’s the amazing thing: As I said, we had 9 that were chromosomally normal. That means we had 10 that were not. (I know! I like totally inherited some super awesome MATH GENE along the way!!)
Had we not done the PGD, it would have been a total crap shoot deciding which ones to transfer, because they were all graded so highly. Of the ten that were designated abnormal, we had a couple with trisomy 15, a couple with monosomy (21,22,16,20, etc.) and a couple that were considered ‘complex abnormal.’ Three were in this category, actually. Keep in mind these abnormal embryos were all graded 1-2, and all were still growing as of that morning. Again, total crap shoot without the testing since we had so many to choose from.
Hearing the good news that we had 9 normal embies (that were now almost all blasts! — Dr. Z said it was in the 98th percentile! We were like the Valedictorians of Embryos!) we were faced with a really, really difficult decision: Did we want to put back two or three?
A voice in my head all morning had been saying, TWO. TWO. ONLY DO TWO. So it was with some dismay that I learned both the doctor and BeBop wanted to do three. Dr. Z left us to discuss the matter, and my bottom line was this: I did not want to use three. I did not want to hope that only two took and one didn’t. I just didn’t want that stress after everything we’ve already been through. I wanted to use two, and just spend the next ten days hoping and praying that both implant and stick around for the long haul.
Thankfully, BeBop respected how strongly I felt about this, and he agreed that transferring the two best would be a good plan. So one was a Grade 1 Blast, and one was a Grade 1 X-Blast. And we have four frozen, but here’s hoping we don’t need them (at least not anytime in the near future!).
*** *** *** ***
Several of you asked about the infusion I had Thursday, the day before the transfer. Basically, my doctor is very into all things immunological, and how this can affect fertility. Before my cycle, my Natural Killer Cells were tested. Dr. Z wanted to make sure I didn’t have antibodies which would kill off a healthy embryo. (I’m no docta, but even I know that would be bad.) At first, my numbers were fine. After the stims, my numbers were slightly elevated, which is seen in a lot of patients.
I imagine it’s like my rather lazy killer cells have just been hanging around all these years, eating Hot Pockets and trying to sneak into R rated movies.
HA! They would scoff each month. Like THOSE ovaries are going to do much. We can totally hang out. Pass me a Tab?
And then all of a sudden with the stims and my follicles finally getting off their asses to produce some eggs, the killer cells were like bumping into each other Three Stooges-style and yelling, Holy Crap! It’s getting hot in herrrrr. Put down that Hot Pocket and look for any foreign invaders, STAT!
(And yes. That concludes today’s After School Special entitled Your Maturing Body.)
So, just to be safe, he had me do an IV infusion of Immunoglobulin (or IVIG). This is a sterile protein preparation derived from human blood. You can imagine how thrilled I was to learn that a by-product of human blood was going to be injected directly into my veins… Yeah.
Not so much.
(I’ll swallow unidentifiable Chinese herbs by the bucket-full, gag down bottles of a mysterious, mud-like brown liquid a Haitian psychic gave to my Mother but SOMEONE ELSE’S BLOOD?? Good grief Charlie Brown. Not my scene.)
Supposedly, the IVIG supplies blocking antibodies that can protect a pregnancy from rejection. And, it can act as a sponge to absorb and neutralize antibodies and some Natural Killer Cells (which? AWESOME name for a rock band, no??) that can attack the implanting placenta. So Dr. Z sent me to this office where they can do four of these IVIGs at one time. I sat in a comfy recliner, and was hooked up to an IV.
Three hours later, I was done. Two bottles of someone’s (hopefully) fully screened and given-a-clean-bill-of-health blood by-products were coursing through my veins. Still makes me a little faint to think about, to tell you the truth…
If I get a BFP, they will check the numbers again and I might have to continue going for the infusions. Some patients go monthly for much of their pregnancy.
So, there’s the story of my PGD and the IVIG infusion, as promised.
Now, seriously:
WHEN CAN I PEE ON A FRICKIN’ STICK??
Thank you for your wonderful, supportive comments.
Things went very well on Friday: we transferred two beautiful embryos, both Grade 1.
One was a blast, the other was an X-Blast.
And of course we forgot what the ‘X’ stood for and have been calling it the X-TREME Blast ever since. Sounds more like a new treat at Dairy Queen than a possible future baby, but there you go!
I will post more about both the PGD (the pre-implantation genetic testing they did) and the infusion I had last week, because several of you have e-mailed me about it and in my last post I was sadly lacking in the details department.
(What? Friends don’t let friends blog after a four-hour infusion of somebody else’s immunoglobulin!!)
So here you go:
And BeBop worked a little of his magic on this one, which he sent to his parents. So, yes. Now my in-laws have been up close and personal with my uterus, my cervix and my VERY full bladder. How nice.
(In case you can’t read it, he helpfully added: Walker & Texas Ranger right here!)
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